


you're just a little bit too much like me

by merricks



Category: Scream (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:46:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28390368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merricks/pseuds/merricks
Summary: When Tatum and Sidney accidentally discover that their boyfriends murdered Maureen Prescott, they hatch a plan for revenge. (Sid and Tatum are Ghostface AU)
Relationships: (those last two aren't really the focus here), Billy Loomis/Sidney Prescott, Billy Loomis/Stu Macher, Sidney Prescott/Tatum Riley, Stu Macher/Tatum Riley
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

Tatum draped herself over the banister, the wooden bar pressing up into her ribcage. “You alright down there?” she called out to the mostly empty house. Light streamed in through the giant window above the door, the sun just past its apex. The faint sound of clinking glass that was coming from the kitchen paused.

“What?” Stu’s muffled voice shouted back.

“Are you good?” she hollered, louder this time.

“Yeah, just gimme a minute! Or a couple minutes! It’s here somewhere,” he insisted.

“If you say so.”

Tatum leaned back away from the railing and retreated to her boyfriend’s bedroom, kicking a pile of clothes to the side just to get the door all the way open. The Machers had a housekeeper (of course they did; even for Westboro, they were  _ rich _ ) but their attempts at teaching their son “personal responsibility” kept her from making a dent in the nuclear disaster that was his room. It was a nice idea in theory--force him to clean up after himself if he doesn’t want to live in squalor--but a total joke in practice, leaving an unnavigable sea of everything Stu had ever owned perpetually obscuring the carpet. Tatum hopscotched her way through it to perch on the end of his bed. At least he’d put sheets on it today, thank God.

She scanned her surroundings, looking for something to occupy herself with. Stu was supposed to be finding the bottle of liquor that he’d allegedly “found the perfect hiding place for” behind the rest of his parents’ substantial alcohol supply. If past experience was any indicator, this was going to take a while. By this point in their relationship she’d memorized the rotation of shit that was constantly occupying the floor in here, but today a flash of red stuck out from beneath a pair of discarded jeans.

Curiosity didn’t have to work hard to overpower whatever thin layer of respect she may have had for Stu’s privacy. If he didn’t want her looking through his stuff, he shouldn’t be leaving it laying on the ground while he wasted her time fucking around downstairs. She nudged the jeans away from the object, which turned out to be a spiral-bound notebook with “MATH” written across it in sharpie. That was odd. Tatum, Stu and Randy were in Algebra 2 together, and she’d be hard pressed to recall a single time any of them had taken any notes. 

She picked it up and began thumbing through, finding nothing but a few haphazard calculations and doodles, then stopped abruptly on a page about somewhere in the middle. The handwriting was different than it had been on the first few pages, far too neat to be Stu’s, but that wasn’t what caught Tatum’s attention. No, what struck her was the first thing written at the top, dictated in bold, black letters:

“MAUREEN PRESCOTT.”

A feeling of dread swelled deep within Tatum’s gut as she read on. It appeared to be an hour-by-hour breakdown of Sidney’s late mother’s daily schedule, complete with the times of day she was unaccounted for and various liaisons she was theorized to be making with men around town. Among the list, Cotton Weary had been circled several times in blue pen. In the following pages, the tidy, dark pencil handwriting was joined by a familiar scrawl she recognized easily as Stu’s in that same blue pen. On one side of the page, the pencil outlined a plan, chillingly clinical for what it contained: steps like “9:00 PM: wait in Prescott’s garage (code 3498)” and “11:20 PM: drag body to front lawn.” On the other side, the pen had been used to sketch a diagram of a naked woman, with arrows pointing to major organs and arteries. 

Unable to continue reading, Tatum snapped the notebook shut. Fuzzy darkness was clinging to the peripheries of her vision and her entire face felt numb. She shook her head to clear it. There would be no vomiting, no fainting, no screaming--not if she wanted to get out of here alive _.  _ As she attempted to regain control of her faculties, Stu’s heavy footfalls mounting the staircase alerted her. Grabbing her purse, she shoved the notebook inside as deep as she could, then tossed it back where it had been and tried to arrange herself casually on the bed. She felt as though she were pinning consciousness down with her elbows in an attempt to keep it from escaping.

Stu shoved the door open with one shoulder and waltzed in, his feet easily finding the few parts of the floor that were free of clutter without even having to look. His carefree stance, endearing just a few minutes before, felt horribly unnerving now. “Told you I’d find it,” he said, waving around the bottle of vodka he had clutched in his left hand. 

“I never said you wouldn’t,” Tatum replied, fighting to keep her tone even. “Did you bring cups, or are we just gonna chug it straight from the bottle like cavemen?”

“Aw, don’t be afraid of my germs, baby. I swear I’m clean.” She granted him a performative eye roll in response. He unscrewed the cap and took a long swig, grimacing as the taste registered in his mouth, then passed it over. She drank greedily. Anything to make staying in this house less unbearable. All she wanted to do was bolt for the door and keep sprinting until she reached the police station, but she knew there was no chance she’d make it down the driveway before all 6 foot 3 of her evidently homicidal significant other caught up. 

“Damn, girl, slow down,” Stu joked. “I don’t want to have to call an ambulance.”

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, focusing on the way the liquid burned through her throat and stomach. “I can handle it,” she retorted. She handed the bottle back over and let herself flop backwards onto the bed, her vision already destabilizing. Maybe it was a bad idea to get wasted in the presence of a murderer, but pretending nothing was wrong was going to be impossible if she wasn’t at least slightly under the influence. 

Her head was still spinning with all the implications. Gale Weathers had been right: Cotton Weary  _ was _ framed. The pencil handwriting had to be Billy’s. The creepiness rolling off of his aura, the venom in his words, the way he got so laser-focused whenever some horror movie or crime documentary came on TV...if anyone was destined to be a killer, it was him. But why Sidney’s mom? And why was  _ Stu  _ involved? Sure, he was weird. Tatum knew that as well as anyone. Murder seemed way above his pay grade, though. Could it all have been a facade? The goofiness, the bad jokes, the childish paranoia over getting in trouble with his parents, all of it the acting chops of a regular Ted Bundy in disguise?

“You want any more of this?” Stu asked, letting the bottle swing lightly into her shoulder and breaking her from her reverie. She took it and swallowed another mouthful. 

“What are you gonna do when it runs out? Don’t you think your parents will notice?”

“I’ll just fill it up with water and stick it in the back. They never drink this stuff, probably wouldn’t even notice if I just hid it in my room.”

“They never search in here for anything?”

“Nah, they don’t. Can you  _ imagine _ ? With the shit I’ve got in here?”

Tatum’s pulse was veering out of control. She knew the conversation was wandering into dangerous territory, but she couldn’t help herself from asking: “Like what?”

Stu scooted himself down on the bed so he could reach his dresser, hooking one foot under the handle to pull it open. Tucked into one corner, partially obscured by a pair of boxers, was a tightly wrapped bundle of plastic baggies. A disposable lighter sat on top. “Weed stash,” he said. “Plus, uh, you know, there are a few socks floating around in here that should probably never see the light of day again…”

“ _ Ew, _ ” she shot back, almost relieved to be disgusted by something normal instead of a dismembered head or a copy of  _ How to Commit a Felony for Dummies _ or whatever. The next few hours passed achingly slowly, but the potency of the alcohol at least muted her racing thoughts for the time being. She mostly focused on keeping her breathing constant, waiting out the torturous moments before Dewey was scheduled to come pick her up--and, at last, there was a honk from the driveway. Tatum hopped to her feet, her drunkenness worn off at least enough to pretend to be sober, and grabbed her purse. She surreptitiously brushed her hand along the side to ensure the angles of the notebook were still there. 

Stu sat up. “You’re sure in a hurry to leave,” he pointed out.

Tatum froze, searching for an excuse. “Uh,” she said. “It’s my mom. She’s always pissed off at me because I get home late.”

He furrowed his brow skeptically. “Your mom is, like, super nice, though.”

“Well, yeah, she is. I’m just trying to do the right thing, since I’m leaving for college soon and all.”

“Okay,” he said, apparently satisfied with that answer. “G’night, then.” 

“Night,” she replied. They bid each other farewell, Tatum desperately trying to keep herself from thinking  _ I’m kissing a murderer,  _ and she walked out of the house, marched to Dewey’s police cruiser, and slammed the door. She sighed quietly with relief as her back hit the seat, evidence securely stashed in her bag. 

“What’s for dinner?” she asked. 


	2. Chapter 2

Sidney navigated her way through the packed cafeteria, making sure to narrow her shoulders, watch her step, and duck occasionally if necessary. She was no bullied victim, but even relative popularity did her no practical good at a school with thousands of students. Everyone slipped through the cracks somewhere. Alone in a hallway this packed, she could vividly picture herself getting trampled if she wasn’t careful.

As she finally made it outside and headed for the boys sitting in their usual spot by the fountain, Tatum yanked her out of her path. “Hey,” Sidney said, extricating her wrist from Tatum’s grasp. “What are you doing?”

“We need to talk privately,” Tatum said. Her voice was unusually serious. “I would’ve called you last night, but I didn’t want my mom overhearing.”

“What’s going  _ on _ ?”

“Will you just come with me? Please?”

Sidney met her best friend’s desperate gaze. The skin beneath her eyes was shadowed, and there was a slightly wild expression on her face. “Of course,” she conceded, and let Tatum lead her to a spot as far from the fountain as they could get. They plopped down in the shade beneath a tree. Tatum ripped up a handful of grass and let it fall onto her lap. Her eyes burrowed deep into the earth; she was tense in a way Sidney had never seen her before.

“You had something to tell me?” Sidney prompted.

Tatum exhaled, rolling her stiff shoulders back. “Yeah. You’re...not going to like this, and you probably won’t even believe me, so I’m just going to show you.” She unzipped her backpack and pulled out a red spiral-bound notebook. Holding the book close to her chest so Sidney couldn’t see over her shoulder, she flipped through until she reached a page somewhere in the middle. “I think Billy killed your mom,” she blurted out. Sidney’s blood froze in place in her veins. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“And Stu helped,” Tatum finished. “I know it sounds insane, but look--look at this--” but Sidney was already standing, shaking her head as she backed away from the tree. The first time Gale Weathers had broken her little conspiracy theory that Cotton Weary was innocent--that Sidney Prescott was a liar, that Maureen Prescott was a whore--it had felt like this,  _ just  _ like this, only this was a thousand times quicker, and the doubt had already started to seep in ( _ it’s Tatum, Sid, why would she lie to you? She’s never lied to you before. But Billy, Billy’s not a killer...but he could be, couldn’t he? He’s never quite felt safe, has he? But of course that’s ridiculous--but you’ve never been sure--but there’s no way--) _

“Sid,” Tatum’s voice said from behind her, the gentle grasp of her hands on Sidney’s shoulders preventing her from backing up into the street. “I’m sorry. Please just let me explain, okay? Then you can freak out if you want.”

Sidney turned, opening her mouth to say...well,  _ something,  _ although she wasn’t quite sure what, but her words were immobilized by the ones written in the notebook Tatum was holding out to her. Her mother’s name. Billy’s handwriting (smallcaps, neat and even, dark enough he frequently broke his pencil lead pressing into the page). She snatched it, eyes furiously searching the page as Tatum continued.

“I found this in Stu’s room yesterday. He doesn’t know I took it, I don’t think, but I should probably put it back soon...I’ll make copies for evidence. That is Billy’s writing, right?”

Sidney couldn’t have answered if she wanted to. Her throat was seized with the need to scream, to sob, anything, but all she could do was part her lips and shut them again. Warmth in her eyes and on her face suggested that she was crying, but she hardly noticed. All she could see were the words on the page. Detailed instructions. _Hide in the bushes, sneak in through the back, wait to strike._ And there was more. Page after page of it. “Affairs,” one was titled, followed by a sickeningly long list of names--several of which she recognized from the endless rumor mill that had been churning out propaganda about her mother ever since her death--Cotton Weary among them, circled, and a few letters at the very bottom that had been erased but could still faintly be made out: “Han.” There were diagrams, maps, polaroid photos of the exterior of Sidney’s house pasted inside. It was obsessively completed, like a hellish scrapbook. And the painstaking effort of it all, the intimate knowledge of the Prescott’s lifestyles, all of it _screamed_ Billy.

Sidney gingerly closed the notebook and handed it back to Tatum with surprisingly steady hands. “Did you tell the cops?” she croaked. Her throat was so dry it stung to speak.

“No,” Tatum admitted. 

“Why?”

“I was waiting until you’d seen it. I...I wasn’t sure what you’d want to do.”

“I want to kill them,” Sidney said. Tatum looked stunned. Sidney couldn’t blame her, honestly. She hadn’t expected those words to come out of her mouth, but once they did she felt no desire to take them back. Billy  _ deserved _ to die. Stu deserved to die, too, for whatever role he’d had in this. Her mother was gone forever, mangled and brutalized and left there for Sidney to find her bloody corpse, had been strung along for a year on hatred of an innocent man, had endured sleepless night after night, spent every moment looking over her shoulder, loathed herself for not being able to relax around her boyfriend only to learn she’d been  _ right the entire fucking time-- _ Billy wasn’t safe. He was a murderer. “I want to tear them apart,” she continued. “Fuck. FUCK!” 

Tatum pulled her into an embrace, gently hushing her. At last Sidney really felt herself sobbing, the raw ache in her throat emulating the rage threatening to boil over inside of her. She gripped the fabric of Tatum’s blouse so tightly her fingers started to lose sensation. After a few minutes, Tatum pulled away to brush the strands of hair from Sidney’s tear-soaked face, looking her seriously in the eyes. “I’ll help you,” she murmured.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” Tatum insisted. “I’m not joking. You want to kill them, I’ll help you do it. And if you change your mind, I’ll take this notebook straight to the police. But I want to see them dead, Sid, not just in jail.”

“You can’t just say things like that to me right now. I’ll take them seriously. It makes too much sense.”

“I’m  _ being  _ serious.”

Sidney tried to mull things over, to knock some reality into herself, but she couldn’t find the wherewithal. Even the most logical parts of her brain were chorusing for Billy’s head on a platter in unison. She was haunted by a vivid image of him and his goddamn accomplice Stu standing in a courtroom, trying to weasel themselves out of a life sentence--pleading insanity, giving their little excuses for why they couldn’t help it--it made her so angry, so passionately, desperately  _ murderous _ . She nodded slowly, exhaling. “So am I.”

“But if we’re doing this we need to be smart,” Tatum continued. “We can’t attract suspicion. You’ve gotta convince Billy that you don’t know anything is wrong.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“I’ll buy you time for today. Sneak around the other side of the school and I’ll keep Billy occupied. But tomorrow...you’re gonna have to figure out how to act normal around him.”

“There’s no way,” Sidney said. “We’re supposed to be left with each other without someone ending up dead?.”

“Well, to be fair, you were already kind of avoiding being alone with him anyway. It won’t be that different.”

“That’s not--” 

“Hey, I don’t blame you, okay? You’ve gotta take things at your own pace. But for now, just pretend it’s someone else. A total stranger. Make up an imaginary boyfriend and paste him over Billy’s face.”

“Uh…” Sidney closed her eyes, trying to conjure something up. Brown hair, maybe? Green eyes? Everything blended together into a pile of mush in her head. She’d never really had a thing for anyone before Billy. For that matter, she hadn’t even paid any attention to  _ him _ before he asked her out back in sophomore year. Of course he was attractive--a pretty boy, everyone said so--and he had been charming, and sweet, and fun to talk to, and it was nice to finally stop having to answer questions about why she was still single. But she didn’t want a boyfriend all that much before Billy, and it was difficult to imagine wanting someone else now. “I don’t think I can just make someone up from scratch.”

“Who said you had to make him up? Just picture Heath Ledger or something.”

“ _ Heath Ledger _ ?”

“He’s hot,” Tatum said. “Objectively.” Sidney gave her a skeptical glance, which she ignored. “Okay, look, lunch is almost over. You’ve gotta get out of here, but we’ll talk about this more later. Sleep over at my place tonight?”

“Sure,” Sidney agreed. She couldn’t imagine trying to sleep at home with Maureen’s photographs hanging all over the place anyway. “I’ll wait for you out front.”

“Cool. I’ll get rid of the boys.” Tatum smiled a little wickedly. “Temporarily...for now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! Hoping to be a bit more expeditious about the following chapters, but college slows things down.

**Author's Note:**

> This basically takes place in a universe where Billy and Stu are slightly *less* evil, and Sidney and Tatum are slightly *more* evil. Inspired by the fact that I think Tatum Riley deserves infinitely better. Title is from "Hermit the Frog" by MARINA.


End file.
